


A Detective to Love

by Wtchcool



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Something's Gotta Give (Movie)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, M/M, Prompt Fill, Quiver (pairing), creepy love triangle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-12 11:33:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wtchcool/pseuds/Wtchcool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I fell in love with my daughter's boyfriend."</p><p>For my own prompt on the meme, based on "Something's Gotta Give" (but with less crying and French music). </p><p>Laurel is spending the weekend with her boyfriend, Oliver, at his family's beach-house when Quentin drops by.  Eventual Quiver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't Get No Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own neither “Arrow,” nor “Something’s Gotta Give.” I am merely combining the two for my own pleasure (and, I hope, that of the readers).
> 
> Story title based on the play within “Something’s Gotta Give.” Chapter title from Queen’s “Somebody to Love.”

          Oliver Queen was a father’s worst nightmare.

 

          The young billionaire’s reputation as a ladies’ man was well known throughout Starling City before Queen ever boarded the _Queen’s Gambit._ It was Quentin Lance’s bad luck that the rake was dating his daughter, Laurel, but Quentin did what he could to protect her. Yes, that did include threatening the young punk with his Taser if Laurel’s bedroom door didn’t stay open. Wouldn’t any young woman’s father have done the same?

 

          Had the _Gambit_ not been ship-wrecked, Quentin might  almost have been glad that Oliver ran away with Sara. Surely nothing would make Laurel see her boyfriend’s true colors better than his infidelity with her own sister.

 

          Or so you would think.

 

          But either Laurel loved Oliver Queen for the slime that he was or five years of absence made the heart grow ridiculously fonder. Whatever the reason, after Queen returned to his old life in Starling City, he resumed his old relationship with Laurel. The only discernible difference was that Laurel no longer lived with her parents. Which meant Quentin could no longer chaperone their get-togethers or instill the fear of god in Queen.

 

          And people wondered why he didn’t smile more.

 

 

* * *

 

          “ _Dad, could you do me a favor?_ ” Laurel asked over the phone.

 

          “What is it?”

 

          Laurel hadn’t exactly been spoiled growing up, but that was probably because of Dinah. Laurel was the apple of Quentin’s eye and as long as she wasn’t asking for something unreasonable, she would get it.

 

          “ _I need you to bring me some files from work_.”

 

          “Where are you?”

 

          Laurel paused, and then cleared her throat.

 

          “ _Do you know the Queens’ house on the beach?_ ”

 

          Well, even Laurel could be unreasonable at times.

 

          “Absolutely not,” he said flatly.

 

          “ _Please, Dad!_ ” Laurel wheedled. “ _I promised Oliver that I wouldn’t do any work this weekend, but it’s really piled up and I don’t want to fall behind. If you could just swing by my apartment and pick up my briefcase…_ ”

 

          Someday, he was going to learn how to say no to her, he mused, as she gave him directions to the house. At least this was something that would annoy Queen.

 

 

* * *

 

          The door to the Queens’ beachfront property was unlocked, so Quentin went inside.

 

          “Laurel!” he called out as he walked. “I’ve got the briefcase you asked for—geez!” If he jumped a little, it was only because he was startled by a half-naked Queen. For heaven’s sake, it was the middle of the day. Did he really need to stroll around in nothing but his boxers? What did his daughter see in this jackass? (Maybe it was the muscles…) He scowled.

 

          “I should’ve known she wouldn’t be able to go a whole weekend without doing any work,” Oliver sighed, as he relieved Lance of the briefcase. “Won’t you join us for dinner, Detective?”

 

* * *

 

**Author’s Note: I am officially horrible at keeping my word about not starting another work-in-progress.**

**Very open to accepting help with this fic, be it someone who wants to co-author, or better yet, take over.**


	2. It's a Hard Life

          “I’m going to pass on the dinner invite,” Quentin said, turning to leave and nearly running into Laurel. (To his relief, she was fully-clothed.)

 

          “Aw, don’t go yet,” she said, having overheard. “Stay; eat with us.”

 

          “You don’t really want me to stick around—”

 

          “Yes, we do.” She wasn’t sure whether her father ate properly these days. Besides, she didn’t like the idea of him being all alone on a Saturday night, which he otherwise would be. And since it was Oliver’s idea to have him stay, he obviously didn’t think this would be an intrusion upon their time together.

 

          “Alright,” Quentin sighed dramatically. “But only if he puts some clothes on,” he added, jabbing a finger in Queen’s direction.

 

          “You drive a hard bargain, sir,” Oliver smiled. “Laurel, did you notice whether I packed a shirt?”

 

          “He’s just kidding,” she assured her father.

 

          “Now if I can just remember where I left my pants…” the billionaire went on.

 

          “Cut it out, Ollie,” the attorney said, playfully smacking his arm.

 

 

* * *

 

          Putting a moratorium on work for the weekend had been John Diggle’s idea. No one but Oliver’s bodyguard-turned-partner would say that the billionaire worked too hard. (Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Felicity Smoak had agreed with him.)

 

          Ostensibly, Oliver Queen had not a care in the world outside of his nightclub, Verdant. In reality, taking a break from being the vigilante sounded like a good idea. And while he was at it, he could take a break from his family, too.

 

          It wasn’t that he didn’t love them, but Queen Manor was rather tense these days. Walter and Moira were fighting with increasing frequency; Thea’s new boyfriend was obsessed with finding the Hood and, oh yeah—his mother had _shot_ him. Okay, she’d shot the Hood-him, not her son-him, so he wasn’t holding that against her, but it was just a tad suspicious. And since he’d promised that the Hood would never bother her again (and she was his mother!), he didn’t want to find anything that would add to those suspicions.

 

          All in all, if he was going to take a couple of days off, he wanted to spend them with Laurel. Naturally, he pitched the idea to her as a weekend where the overworked attorney would just kick back and relax.

 

          Who knew his girlfriend was as big a workaholic as he was?

 

          But then, perhaps she took after her father that way. Her father, Detective-Sergeant Lance, the head of the Starling City Police Department task force charged with bringing the Hood down—who secretly grudgingly cooperated with the Hood from time to time. Come to think of it, Lance’s stress level had to be at least as high as Oliver’s. The cognitive dissonance alone would be driving him nuts.

 

          And Oliver liked the guy, at least as far as quasi-allies went, so he’d invited him to stay for dinner.

 

* * *

 

          Conversation wasn’t as awkward as he would’ve expected it to be. At times, it was downright amusing.

 

          “Detective, any leads on finding the vigilante?”

 

          “Let’s not get into this now,” Laurel groaned. Having been the Hood’s damsel-in-distress on more than one occasion, she was, predictably, a fan.

 

          “Couldn’t go into it anyway,” Quentin said, seemingly relieved to have a way out. “You know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

 

          “But you must have _something_. He was shot awhile back, wasn’t he? You must have blood from the scene,” Oliver persisted.

 

          “It went missing,” Quentin gritted out. “There was a computer glitch.”

 

          “That’s quite enough talk about the Hood for one night,” Laurel groped around for a change of subject.

 

          Dinner continued on with the tension more or less defused. Afterwards, Quentin said his goodbyes, preparing to head home. (Night had fallen, but he had plenty of experience driving at night, so that wouldn’t be a problem.)

 

          And then they heard a noise. Someone had broken in.

 

          Quentin was armed. He’d removed his gun holster for a while earlier, but he’d put it back on while getting ready to go. He brought the weapon out without thinking about it.

 

          But would it be enough? He didn’t have any backup; he’d left his police radio in the car. If the intruder was a threat to his daughter—

 

          Oh _shit_. The intruder stepped into view, revealing herself as Helena Bertinelli, a.k.a. the Huntress. And she was armed with her crossbow.

 

          They needed help. They needed—

 

          Hating what he was doing, but unable to put it off, he reached into his pocket with the hand that was not holding his gun on Bertinelli for a cell phone.

 

          He didn’t need to take his eyes off her to dial; the number was already programmed in.

 

          In the silence that was the calm before hell broke loose, Quentin heard a buzzing sound in synch with the ringing from his phone. A buzzing like…

 

          The Hood’s phone was set to vibrate. And the sound was emanating from the jacket Queen had abandoned on the back of a chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do NOT expect updates to be this regular.
> 
> This fic is somewhat AU. I’m deciding what parts of canon to use as I go along. But I’m definitely leaving out Oliver’s serial killer side. So in this ‘verse, it’s not that he’s never killed anyone, but that he isn’t trigger-happy and has kept it to a bare minimum. 
> 
> Helena is being used as a plot device, not a major character. It was either use her or a random ninja or research characters. 
> 
> Chapter title comes from the Queen song of the same name.


	3. Out of the Doorway the Bullets Rip

            “Detective, did you take any medications this evening?” Dr. Frank Magnarelli asked.

 

            “What?” Quentin, feeling disoriented, peered up from the hospital bed. The man in the white coat standing over him looked to be no older than Laurel.

 

            “I want to administer some blood thinners intravenously, but I need to be sure you won’t have a bad reaction. Have you taken anything for erectile dysfunction?” the doctor continued.

 

            “What?!” Quentin spluttered. “No! I don’t have—”

 

            “Good, then this won’t kill you,” Magnarelli interrupted as a nurse inserted the I.V. line. “Detective, it appears that you’ve had a myocardial infarction—a heart attack,” he explained. “Do you remember what happened when the attack started?”

 

            Quentin thought back. Oh, he remembered alright.

 

* * *

 

_Flashback:_

 

            _The Hood; Queen had the Hood’s phone—Queen_ was _the Hood. His daughter was dating the Hood!!_

 

            Curses went off in the background; his gun had fired accidentally when he collapsed to the floor from the pain. He didn’t know if anyone was hit. But Laurel was okay; she crouched down beside him.

 

            “Oh my god! Dad!”

 

            “Laurel,” Oliver Queen’s voice came. “Use your phone. Call 911; tell them we need an ambulance.”

 

            “You’re not making any phone calls,” Bertinelli warned.

 

            Her threats didn’t seem to be working. Laurel had retrieved his gun, evidently set to multi-task as she called for help with the phone in her left hand. She gave the emergency dispatcher the address and went on.

 

            “We need an ambulance. Officer down—S.C.P.D. Detective Lance…”

 

            A scuffle ensued that he could hear, but not see, following which Laurel apparently handed the gun to Oliver before she crouched down again. He was too out of it to follow what almost sounded like banter. And then they heard the sirens.

 

            “That’s not the ambulance,” Laurel realized. “That’s—”

 

            “This is the S.C.P.D.” Someone was using a bull-horn. “We have you surrounded.”

 

            “GET DOWN!” Oliver shouted.

 

            The door burst open. There were footsteps and then gunshots; so very many of them, but Quentin was too tired to count. He may have passed out for a bit. He remembered being loaded into an ambulance and Laurel riding with him…

 

_End Flashback_

* * *

 

            “Do you remember—” the doctor started to repeat the question.

 

            “There was a psychopath threatening my daughter, Laurel. Is she okay?” Quentin asked.

 

            “I’m fine, Dad. I’m right here,” she said, coming into the room.

 

            “What happened?” he asked, as the doctor excused himself from the room.

 

            “Your buddies at the S.C.P.D. are rather protective of you. They must’ve fired two dozen rounds, easily—I’m fine! I was lucky; none of them hit me. One of the bullets did graze Oliver, though. The M.E. is going to have his work cut out for him digging all the lead out of Bertinelli. You hit her, too, Dad, when you dropped your gun; I think it went through her shoulder.

 

            “You didn’t make the killing shot, but she’s dead now.”

 

* * *

 

            The doctor caught up with Oliver in a hallway. (Oliver’s flesh wound had already been treated, per Laurel’s insistence. His shirt hid the bandages on his side.)

 

            “Mr. Queen, your father-in-law is going to be okay.”

 

            “Thank you,” Oliver sighed in relief. “He’s not my father-in-law, though.”

 

            “Oh. I’m sorry; your uncle is going to be okay,” Dr. Magnarelli said.

 

            Oliver shook his head, bemused, but decided not to try correcting him again.

 

            “Can I see him now?”

 

* * *

 

            “You,” Quentin said, as he saw Oliver Queen walk in with the doctor.

 

            “I see you’re awake. What’s the prognosis?” Oliver asked, ignoring the older man’s attempt at a glare.

 

            “Well, we’re going to keep him overnight for observation,” Magnarelli said. “We should be able to send him home by tomorrow afternoon with a nurse.”

 

            “That should give me enough time to have the place cleaned up,” Oliver mused.

 

            “What?” Quentin asked.

 

            “It’s mostly spackling, cleaning up some glass. I think the forensics team is already done with it. I can bring in some people to straighten it up one-two-three,” the billionaire continued, snapping his fingers to illustrate.

 

            “And why are you telling me this?” Lance asked.

 

            Queen looked at him as if he’d had a concussion instead of a heart attack.

 

            “When you’re released, you’re coming back to the beach house with me and Laurel. You didn’t think we were going to send you back to your apartment all alone?”

 

            “Doc, Laurel, do you mind if I speak to Mr. Queen alone for a moment?” Quentin asked. They shuffled out of the room obediently, shutting the door behind them.

 

            “Like hell am I going to go anywhere with the Hood,” Lance proclaimed when they were alone.

 

            “The Hood,” Oliver blinked.

 

            “Drop the dumb blonde act. I called your phone. I heard it go off.” _I can’t believe I was so stupid. I should’ve figured it out before._

 

            “First off, you’re assuming that was a phone. It could have been a vibrator,” Queen said with a straight face.

 

            “A vibrator,” Quentin repeated, staring at him.

 

            “A defective one, obviously, since it was going off on its own—”

 

            “Queen,” Quentin’s voice was laced with something that said, quite clearly, ‘ _stop screwing with me_.’

 

            “Alright, so my phone vibrated!” He checked himself and lowered his voice when he continued. “That doesn’t prove anything. It could’ve been someone else calling me: Tommy, or my mom, or Diggle.”

 

            “But it wasn’t. It was me,” Quentin held his gaze.

 

            “Look, you know how you think you know me? Well, I know you!”

 

            “You don’t—”

 

            “And I know that after Laurel the most important thing to you is your job. What would happen if you did know the vigilante’s identity? You can’t get in trouble if you don’t know.”

 

            “Don’t threaten me, Queen.”

 

            “I’m not.”

 

            “I wouldn’t be the one in trouble,” Quentin hissed.

 

            “Lance,” Oliver shook his head. “You just admitted to me that when the chips were down tonight, you called the Hood for help. How would that look?”

 

            “I left the police radio in the car. I happened to have…” he trailed off.

 

            “But you were carrying the phone the vigilante gave you.” He paused to let that sink in. And Oliver was carrying its mate, his vow to take a weekend away from his night job, notwithstanding (not to mention the fact that Lance was _right_ _there_ ). What did it say that he’d become so accustomed to carrying it? “The best thing, for both of us, is to forget this happened.”

 

            “Does Laurel know she’s dating the Hood?” Quentin demanded.

 

            “She hasn’t come to the same conclusion about the Hood’s identity as you have,” Queen picked his words carefully after he was done gritting his teeth. Lance was doing the exact opposite of forgetting.

 

            “Is that so? Either you tell her, or I will,” Quentin warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Queen’s song, “Another One Bites the Dust.”
> 
> Thanks to Dragomir and annadale for their input! Dragomir voted in favor of the shootout.
> 
> Bonus points if you know which fic my OC Magnarelli is from.


	4. Very Slightly Mad

            Oliver’s thoughts raced as he searched for a temporary solution. His lips curved as it came to him.

 

            “You want to tell Laurel that I’m the vigilante. Could you do me a favor and tell her right now?” he asked, earning a suspicious look from Lance. “That way, she’ll figure it’s just the drugs talking,” he finished.

 

            Quentin frowned. Maybe the medication the doctor had given him was making him a _little_ bit loopy, but he was still (mostly) alert. He knew he was right about Queen. But the younger man had a point; it would be better to wait until his credibility was back to normal.

 

            As he reached the decision, Lucas Hilton, Quentin’s partner, and their lieutenant, Frank Pike, showed up to see how he was doing and have a few words. Oliver left them alone, though he was advised to stick around and make a report of what had happened.

 

            His other phone rang.

 

            “Hi Mom… It’s all over the news, huh? …No, I’m fine. I got out of it with just a small flesh wound. It’s already been treated… No, Mom, forget the lawyers. We’re not suing the S.C.P.D. for damage to the property. …Out of proportion? Look, they were saving me. …

 

            “Okay, they were there because the detective was hurt, but Bertinelli was there because of me. …Yes, _me._ You remember—I went out on a couple of dates with Helena before I worked things out with Laurel. …Yes, I can rely on Laurel not to go crazy and hunt me down with a crossbow. If that’s all, Mom…

 

            “No, I’m not heading back to the manor. Laurel and I are going to finish our weekend at the beach house. …We’re going to take Lance there when he’s discharged. …Mom…Mom, he wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for me! …

 

            “You know what, I don’t really care that you don’t like him. At least _he’s_ honest with me. …Figure it out.

 

            “I’ve got to go. Give my love to Walter and Thea. Bye.”

 

* * *

 

            Lieutenant Pike had informed him that, pending an investigation of the incident, the officers involved were going to be sitting behind desks. Aside from a shortage of manpower, this would not affect Detective Hilton, who would lead the task force during Quentin’s absence. (He may have had a little trouble, looking Hilton in the eye, knowing the vigilante’s identity and keeping it from him. Lucas didn’t seem to notice and Quentin tried to quash the feeling that he was betraying his partner.)

 

            Lance assured the LT that the heart attack was a one-time thing and that he’d be able to resume his regular duties later in the month. Getting ready to leave the hospital the next day, he confirmed this with the doctor.

 

            “That should be fine, as long as you’re more careful about what you eat and you take those pills I prescribed for you,” Dr. Magnarelli pronounced, “although I will want to follow-up with you to monitor your progress. Do you have any other questions for me before you leave?” The cardiologist looked at him expectantly.

 

            “No, that’s it,” Quentin said.

 

            “Usually, after an attack like the one you had, my patients want to know when they’ll be able to resume sexual activity—”

 

            “Do we have to have this conversation?” Blood rushed to Quentin’s face. It wasn’t like he had gotten much action since his divorce three years ago, anyway.

 

            “And I tell them,” Magnarelli continued, “that the general rule is if you can climb a flight of stairs, you can have sex.”

 

            “Terrific, and on that note,” _I’m out of here._ “Don’t want to keep my daughter waiting. So long, Doc,” Quentin stood up, glad to be out of the godforsaken hospital gown and back in his own clothes.

 

* * *

 

            “I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Quentin grumbled during the ride.

 

            “Dad, you just had a heart attack,” Laurel interjected.

 

            “That’s exactly my point! I shouldn’t be doing anything to increase my blood pressure, therefore I shouldn’t be anywhere near this guy,” he jerked his head towards Oliver, who was driving.

 

            “Well, since I’m dating your daughter, you can’t avoid me forever,” the billionaire pointed out. Unspoken went the other reason Lance couldn’t avoid him, namely that it was his job to hunt Queen down. “You might as well try to build up a tolerance to me.”

 

            “Not possible,” the detective gritted out.

 

            “Dad, don’t be silly. Besides, Oliver’s going to be on his best behavior, aren’t you, Oliver?”

 

            “It could hardly get worse,” Quentin muttered before the blonde could say anything. He wasn’t sure exactly how he got into this situation, but he reminded himself that as soon as the drugs leveled out, he was going to tell Laurel the truth about her boyfriend. Maybe then he could figure out a way to arrest Queen without their history of occasional working-sort-of-together coming to light.

 

            “We’re here,” Laurel announced as Oliver parked the vehicle.

 

            “Good as new,” Oliver smirked, once they were inside the house. Looking around, Quentin had to agree.

 

            “I have to hand it to you. You’d never know there had been a fatal shootout here the day before.” Queen sure was good at cleaning things up. Damn it; there was no point in searching Verdant or Queen Manor for evidence. Anything incriminating would vanish long before the warrants came through.

 

            “Let me show you your room,” Laurel said, leading the way for her father. “I’ve already picked up some things from your place, but I can make another trip if I missed anything,” she added, as he opened drawers to find a selection of his clothes neatly folded.

 

            “Eh, looks like you did a good job. By the time I need more, I should be ready to go home.” Although he did feel like he was missing something…

 

            “They took your gun to the precinct,” Laurel supplied. “Probably verifying that you accidentally discharged it last night when—anyway, I’m sure you’ll get it back when you return to work.” It wasn’t like he was suspended, after all.

 

            “What if I need it before then? How will I protect myself?”

 

            “Dad, Bertinelli was after _Oliver_. And she’s dead. You should be safe here now.”

 

            And that was the sort of statement Laurel could make because she had no idea how many enemies her boyfriend had, _Christ_.

 

            “I don’t know, honey. He might have more psychopathic ex-girlfriends where she came from.”

 

            “Detective, come on,” Queen said, poking his head into the guest room. “You can’t be implying that all of my girlfriends have been psychopaths.”

 

            “With the exception of my daughters, I can.”

 

            “Guys, come on,” Laurel huffed. “I want to see you two getting along before I leave.”

 

            “Before you what?” Quentin asked.

 

            “Well, after all, I was only supposed to be here for the weekend,” Laurel began. “It’s already Sunday. I’ll take tomorrow off, but I should really go back to CNRI by Tuesday.” It figured; if she couldn’t go one weekend without her briefcase, no way would she take more than a day off of work. “You know how things are at the office; we’re swamped.”

 

            “Let me get this straight: You’re going to leave me alone with him?” Quentin asked.

 

            “Oh, you won’t be all alone. They’re sending a nurse Tuesday morning, remember?” she chirped.

 

            “Then they could send the nurse to my apartment!”

 

            “I’m starting to get the feeling that you don’t enjoy my company,” the vigilante mock-pouted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank those who have taken the time to comment!
> 
> Thanks also to Dragomir for supplying the names of Detective Hilton and Lieutenant Pike!
> 
> Chapter title is from Queen’s “I’m Going Slightly Mad.”


	5. New Exposure

            “Waste of my stinking time!” the woman shrieked. It was Tuesday morning. Somehow Laurel had kept the guys from murdering each other on Monday (a task that was likely easier with her father unarmed and at less than his full strength). She had left perhaps an hour before, heading into CNRI (City Necessary Resources Initiative), which left the other two alone in the house with—

 

            “I’m sorry for the mix-up, Mila,” Oliver said solemnly. “Let me compensate you for your trouble,” he reached for his wallet.

 

            “Is that the nurse?” Quentin asked, coming into the room. “What’s going on?”

 

            “That jerk fired me!” Mila pointed an accusing finger at the billionaire.

 

            “If you’d let me explain—” Oliver began.

 

            “He can’t fire you. He’s not the patient,” Quentin declared.

 

            “That’s right; you are. Didn’t you say at dinner last night that you didn’t need a nurse?” Queen asked.

 

            “I,” Quentin paused. He _had_ said something like that, hadn’t he? He’d been thinking that nurses were for the old and the crippled and that as he was neither, a nurse would be degrading. But that was last night. This morning he’d very much like to have a buffer—any buffer—between him and Queen.

 

            Evidently Queen didn’t feel the same way.

 

            But of course he didn’t. Another person there meant another person to hide his secret from—another person Lance might blab to. He hadn’t managed to tell his daughter, yet, but Queen knew that ultimatum was still hanging over him. And Lance had only said that Oliver should be the one to tell _Laurel_ the truth. The detective might have no compunction about being the one to tell others.

 

            “There you see,” the blonde spoke up, pulling out a couple of bills and offering them to the redhead. “It’s not that we’re firing you, it’s just that we don’t need your help, after all. No hard feelings, okay?”

 

            “Now wait a minute!” Lance objected. “We do need her help.”

 

            “I can take care of you just as well as she can,” the archer said.

 

            “Even if you could, I think you’d be a little too busy _running around the city_ ,” Quentin hissed. Distracted, he didn’t notice as Mila, her eyes wide after examining just how much she’d been tipped for showing up (or rather, for leaving quickly), headed out the door.

 

            “No, I called Tommy. He’s going to be looking after Verdant by himself for the time being. Tell you the truth, he’s pretty much running it single-handedly as it is—”

 

            “I’m not talking about your damn nightclub!”

 

            “Back to your allegations that I’m the Hood then,” Oliver shoved his hands in his pockets. The older man instinctively scanned the room and then noticed that the nurse was long gone. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you’re right. You’re the head of the task force to bring in the vigilante. I know; Hilton’s covering for you. But it’s still your project.

 

            “If you can take time off, then I can, too.”

 

            “It’s not a competition! I’m not doing this to prove a point,” Quentin retorted. “Just because I may be out of commission doesn’t mean the great Hood is going to sit on his ass and play nurse.”

 

            “Oh, admit it; you like my ass, don’t you?” Oliver winked. “I could maybe send out for a nurse uniform, if that’s what you’re into—Hey, take it easy! You look like you’re going to have another coronary.”

 

            “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Quentin grumbled.

 

            “Let me get you some water,” the younger man said, heading off towards the kitchen.

 

            “I can get it myself!” the detective called, following him. After accepting a glass from the blonde, he sat down to drink. Feeling better, he spoke. “I haven’t nailed down your pattern yet, but you’ve got one and I’ll crack it eventually. I do know that in that crazy head of yours, you think you’re helping, that you’re somehow protecting the city with what you do.

 

            “You care about Starling as much as I do; you just have a very warped way of showing it. So, caring the way you do and believing that you’re this boon to society, I repeat: There’s no way you’re going to sit on—at home to look after an old man.”

 

            “You’re not old,” Oliver jumped in.

 

            “You’re right, I’m not,” Quentin conceded, though he’d been feeling older since the heart attack. “The rest of the argument still applies.”

 

            “Unless I think the city can manage without the Hood for a while,” Oliver suggested. “There’s still the S.C.P.D. And I would imagine that the Hood has…friends…that he could contact if there were an emergency. Oh, and there’s one more thing you didn’t take into consideration.”

 

            “What’s that?”

 

            “Maybe I want to take care of you.”

 

            Quentin snorted and muttered something that sounded to Oliver like “ _full of crap._ ”

 

* * *

 

            “Don’t worry about the List,” Oliver said to Diggle over the phone that night. “It can hold for a few days.”

 

            “ _Days? If you’re waiting for Lance to fully recover, that can take weeks!_ ”

 

            “Okay; it can hold for a few weeks, then. It held for the five years I was trapped on that island.”

 

            _“But what if—”_

 

            “If an emergency comes up, you mean? Well, you’ve filled in for me before…”

 

            “ _Only because you let yourself get slapped with a fucking ankle bracelet! I can’t hit a target with one of your arrows to save my life. Sooner or later someone’s going to figure out I’m not the Hood. For instance, the guy you’re playing Nightingale for._ ”

 

            “Yeah, about that… Detective Lance knows—”

 

            “ _Knows what?”_

 

            “That I’m the one that gave him that phone around Christmas.”

 

            “ _Are you kidding me?!”_

 

            “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’ve been arrested again or anything… Uh, Diggle, I’m going to have to call you back. I heard something. I’m going to go check it out,” Oliver ended the call and dropped the cell phone. Silently, he crept out of his room and down the hallway to investigate the noise. There were footsteps ahead of him; he was gaining on the person. He rounded a corner and—

 

            “FUCK! WHAT THE HELL?” Lance screamed.

 

            Not another intruder in the beach house, then. It was just Lance, having gotten up in the middle of the night, presumably to get something from the kitchen. And apparently Lance slept in the nude. Who knew?

 

            “Er, sorry,” Oliver belatedly turned away from the other man.

 

            “What’re you doing, sneaking up on me?”

 

            “It is my house. And there was an intruder a few nights ago, as you might recall. Just making sure there wasn’t another one,” Oliver chanced a look back in Quentin’s direction, but turned his head again before the detective could resume yelling.

 

            “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t see much,” Oliver offered. “Just…your ass…and your balls…and…”

 

            Face scarlet, Quentin stormed back to the guest room and slammed the door. Muffled screaming followed.

 

            After several minutes of this, but before his voice could give out, Quentin dialed Laurel’s number and got her voicemail. Well, it was—he checked the clock—about a quarter to three in the morning. Not everyone was an insomniac.

 

            “ _Please leave a message._ ”

 

            Right, well, he was not going to say what had just happened. Nobody needed to know that. He didn’t need to know that. He could stick to vague complaints then.

 

            “Your boyfriend is driving me up the freaking wall here! I don’t know how much more of this I can take! Do me a favor and come drive me home. Heck, drive me back to the hospital for all I care, just get me away from him!” Or, as an alternative, the very least she could do…

 

            “Remember when you asked if there was anything else I’d need? See if I still have any old pajamas at the apartment, will ya? Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Queen’s “My Melancholy Blues.”
> 
> Thanks to those following the story, and especially to those who have left comments!


	6. Cracks Showing Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter now also available on LJ. Font colors preserved on my journal.

 

            “Detective, don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Oliver asked in the morning. Quentin had buttoned his long-sleeved shirt all the way to the very top and he was wearing sunglasses—indoors.

 

            “We’re not going to talk about what happened last night, ever.”

 

            “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll let you see my ass and then we’ll be even.”

 

             “See, that’s talking about it. Shut up!” _How the hell would that make him feel any better?_

 

            “But I can’t see those pretty brown eyes if you keep them covered up.”

 

            Why the hell was his daughter’s boyfriend flirting with him? Was it possible to have some kind of nervous tick that made you flirt with _everyone?_ Quentin took the shades off, anyway, the better to watch the morning news. The reporter was discussing Helena Bertinelli’s funeral. Lance turned his head from the television set to the younger man.

 

            “So you and Bertinelli…”

 

            “Didn’t work out, but you knew that already,” Queen sighed. “For a while there, I thought… I thought she understood me, that she was _like_ me, that I wouldn’t have to keep secrets from her—yes, alright, like I’ve been keeping from Laurel. I don’t actually enjoy keeping secrets from Laurel, you know.”

 

            “No one’s making you,” Quentin said. He scratched a phantom itch on his arm before continuing. “She’ll forgive you, you know. Telling her might even help in the long run. You know how gung-ho she is about the vigilante.” When the billionaire didn’t respond, he went back to talking about Helena.

 

            “So I take it Bertinelli didn’t agree that you were two peas in a pod.”

 

            “She did at first. But I couldn’t convince her to stop killing and then she went after her father and…” Oliver shook his head. “And I don’t know why I’m going off about a bad break-up when you went through that divorce.”

 

            “My ex never tried to kill me,” Quentin pointed out, trying not to feel uncomfortable about the change in topic. “Nor did I have to watch her die in front of me and we’ve stayed sort of friends. Or at least we’re friendly on the rare occasions we talk. The divorce...it was painful, but it wasn’t ugly, you know? We didn’t hate each other; we just couldn’t pretend that we still had what we once had.”

 

            “Hey, as long as you’ve got those sunglasses handy, you want to go for a walk on the beach?” Oliver asked. “I mean, we’re right here and aside from going to and from the hospital, you’ve been pretty cooped up for a few days.”

 

* * *

 

            Friday evening saw Quentin lying in bed in the guestroom. (Underwear on, he’d learned his lesson after the other night.) As it was too early for him to sleep, he had his laptop in front of him as he perused the local news stories. Then his computer chimed and a window popped up—he had a message from someone not on his messenger list. It could be spam, but he had a pretty good idea who it was, so he opened it.

 

**Ihateboats: Thought you might be online, detective.**

**Ihateboats: R u there? You ignoring me?**

**Protectnserve: I’m here.**

**Protectnserve: Why is your username Ihateboats instead of Ihateislands?**

**Ihateboats: Dude, I don’t hate all islands. Part of Starling City is an island.* I just hate the creepy desert islands where it takes years to get rescued.**

**Ihateboats: And also _Survivor._ Why would that show appeal to anyone?**

**Protectnserve: No idea. Presumably the viewers have never been shipwrecked.**

**Ihateboats: Lucky them. Let me tell you, it _sucks_. You have no idea.**

 

            Quentin hesitated before replying.

 

**Protectnserve: Do you want to talk about it?**

 

            There was a pause before the next message.

 

**Ihateboats: I haven’t talked about it with _anyone_ —Laurel, Tommy, Diggle, my mom, & believe me, they’ve asked. I just can’t.**

**Ihateboats: I get flashbacks.**

**Ihateboats: Don’t suggest a shrink. No therapist is going to believe I was stuck on an island full of ninjas; they’d say I was nuts.**

**Protectnserve: …Ninjas?**

**Ihateboats: Don’t ask. Just suffice it to say ‘bad’ doesn’t begin to describe those years.**

**Ihateboats: So, yeah, if I don’t seem too traumatized by my ex-girlfriend being killed right in front of me? It’s because I’ve seen worse.**

**Ihateboats: Helena didn’t get me, anyway. Never did. I think maybe you’re the only one that does.**

**Protectnserve: Or maybe that’s just an act and I’m trying to trick you into confessing everything.**

**Ihateboats: Let’s talk about something else. How old were you when you met your wife?**

**Protectnserve: We were in high school and…you’re just trying to figure out my age now, aren’t you?**

**Ihateboats: …Maybe.**

**Ihateboats: If you don’t tell me, I’ll just look it up.**

**Protectnserve: …Forty-seven.** Is this the part where you tell me I’m ancient, Queen?**

**Ihateboats: No, this is where I tell you to call me Oliver. Mr. Queen was my father. Ihateboats: And I thought that we’d be on a first name basis after I saw you naked. ;)**

**Protectnserve: That was an ACCIDENT, which you swore not to talk about…**

**Protectnserve: … _Oliver_.**

**Ihateboats: :) See, that wasn’t so difficult.**

**Ihateboats: I’m hungry. R u?**

**Protectnserve: …Didn’t we just eat a couple of hours ago?**

**Ihateboats: So? Are you hungry or not?**

**Protectnserve: Well…since you mention it, I could eat.**

**Ihateboats: Meet you in the kitchen in 5?**

 

* * *

 

            Five minutes later, they did rendezvous in the kitchen (both wearing robes).

 

            “So, what are you in the mood for?” Oliver asked, smiling. When Quentin hesitated, Oliver opened the refrigerator door to see what their options were. “Let’s see: grilled cheese, tuna, leftover chicken, spaghetti, mashed potatoes, pancakes…”

 

            “Pancakes,” Quentin decided.

 

            “You read my mind,” Oliver grinned, as he started pulling out the necessary ingredients and got to work.

 

            “Queen—”

 

            “What did I say about calling me that?”

 

            “Oliver, then, when you said that I get you…”

 

            “Yes, Quentin, I meant it.” Oliver didn’t look up from beating the eggs. “Unlike my mother, I know you haven’t just been driven by some vendetta against me. You’ve gotten as far as you have these past months by getting into my head.

 

            “And that’s as close to a confession as you’re going to get, by the way.”

 

            “We shouldn’t be striking up a friendship,” Quentin shook his head, “with you being who you are and me being who I am. What happens when I go back to work?”

 

            This time Oliver did turn away from the batter to meet Quentin’s gaze. He didn’t have an answer for that, so he didn’t speak. A beat passed in silence, then two…

 

            Then the front door opened and a cheerful voice called out.

 

            “Dad? Ollie? Is anybody home?” Laurel strolled into the kitchen, bags in tow. “There you are!”

 

            “Laurel, what are you doing here?” Oliver asked.

 

            “I got this distraught voicemail from Dad the other night,” she kissed her father on the cheek. “I went back to your apartment and did manage to dig up some flannel pajamas in your closet like you wanted,” she gestured to the bags she’d set down on the counter, “though I think the weather’s too hot for them now.

 

            “I have the worst news: Mom is getting remarried! Can you believe that? Just, out of the blue, who knows what kind of loser the guy is, though she says she wants me to meet him soon. Figures that would be the only reason she’d make time to see me—

 

            “Oh, you’re making pancakes—at this hour, really?”

 

            “Yes, really,” Oliver replied.

 

            “Uh, you know, on second thought, I’m just going to hit the sack now,” Quentin said.

 

            “You don’t have to,” Oliver protested.

 

            “Am I interrupting something?” Laurel asked, trying to figure out what was going on around her. She looked between the two men, taking in their expressions and body language.

 

            “No, you’re not,” Quentin assured her. “Goodnight, honey.”

 

            “Quentin, are you sure you don’t want any pancakes?” Oliver asked, pouring layers of subtext into the question.

 

            “No, I,” he looked at his daughter before looking back at her boyfriend. “No, I don’t.”

 

            As he left the room, Laurel’s eyes widened.

 

            _Holy shit!_ Her father had fallen in love with Oliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Okay, I don’t know whether this has been established in the show, but it’s plausible. Go with it.
> 
> **Some of you may know that in canon, Quentin was 50 years old in season one (significantly older than the actor that portrays him). I chose to knock three years off his age. 
> 
> Author’s Note: Chapter title from Queen’s “Lost Opportunity.”
> 
> Thanks, as always, to those who have taken the time to comment!


	7. Feel Your Heartbeat Grow Faster

            “I’m thinking of breaking up with Ollie,” Laurel announced in the morning.

 

            Her father nearly choked on his coffee. The two were having breakfast alone. Oliver had already eaten and was out shopping for groceries.

 

            “He told you?” Quentin gasped out once his throat was clear. Queen must have told Laurel that he was the vigilante. It was the only reason he could see for her breaking up with him, though he’d been so positive that the truth wouldn’t end the kids’ relationship.

 

            “Wait—has he already confessed his feelings for you?” Laurel demanded. It was one thing for Oliver to go behind her back with one relative, but to do it twice…

 

            “What are you talking about?” Quentin asked.

 

            “What are you talking about?” Laurel turned the question back on him.

 

            So she still didn’t know Oliver was the vigilante. Then—wait, what the hell had she said?

 

            “I asked you first. What feelings are you talking about?”

 

            “Oh come on, Dad. I’m not blind. There was something cooking in the kitchen last night other than pancakes,” Laurel replied.

 

            “What? No!” Quentin exclaimed. There hadn’t… Well… Okay, he’d been having a good time with Oliver, impossible as that seemed; he no longer wanted to strangle him (as often). But, “he’s _your_ boyfriend. I couldn’t—that’s just...” he pretended to gag.

 

            “He was my boyfriend about five years ago, but that didn’t stop him from running off with Sara. Oliver’s afraid of commitment, or maybe he’s just afraid of committing to _me_ , but either way, I think I’ve finally outgrown him.

 

            “I mean I’m twenty-eight years old. When mom was that age, she’d already had me and Sara.”

 

            “Your mother and I started early, though. People wait later to start families these days,” Quentin pointed out.

 

            “I know that and I have, but maybe I’m tired of waiting. I don’t want to wait around another five years to see if Oliver’s ready to get serious with me.”

 

            “You should talk to him,” Quentin suggested. “Tell him how you feel, give him a chance to—”

 

            “A chance to what? I realized something last night, Dad. Oliver and I just don’t click. It’s over and I’m going to tell him after he gets back.”

 

            “Well, if that’s how you feel,” Quentin said, uncertainly. “Maybe it’s for the best. I mean, he is an arrogant, overblown jackass.”

 

            “He can be,” Laurel giggled before turning serious. “But you know, sometimes he shows a depth you wouldn’t expect from him. You get a glimpse of a different Oliver, the one that he could be, the one I think he wants to be. You’ve seen that, haven’t you?”

 

            “I might have,” Quentin cleared his throat.

 

            “Dad, if you can handle it, you should give it a try—you and Oliver,” Laurel advised him.

 

            “Oh sure,” he snorted. “After we’ve just established how he’s an unfaithful louse, who would run at the first sign that things were getting serious,” not to mention the little fact that Queen was the Hood! “Not going to happen, Laurel.” 

 

            “You’re only saying that because you think that Ollie and I had sex!”

 

            “That’s not the only reason.” But it was a perfectly good reason. Quentin’s face went crimson. Curious way she phrased it, though. He averted his gaze as he followed up on it. “Well, you did, didn’t you?”

 

            “Never, not even close,” Laurel responded quickly— _too_ quickly.

 

            “Oh really?” Quentin asked skeptically, managing to make eye contact with her again.

 

            “…Okay, maybe close,” Laurel said, smiling at apparently fond memories—and how the hell had Quentin gotten into this conversation? “Look, before the shipwreck, I was still living at home. You threatened Ollie with bodily harm if my bedroom door didn’t stay open at all times, remember?”

 

            “Yeah,” he remembered. He was afraid that that hadn’t been enough, though. It wasn’t as if he’d been able to maintain twenty-four hour surveillance of his daughter. “But you’ve got your own place _now_ , so I’m pretty sure there’s no one around to deter your boyfriends.”

 

            “When we agreed to give it another shot, we also agreed to take things slow, okay, slow-ish,” Laurel smiled again. “I think we probably would have, uh, ‘gone all the way’ last weekend, but, well, you know—”

 

            “Saved by your old man’s heart attack,” Quentin supplied.

 

            “Something like that,” Laurel nodded. “So, you see, technically I didn’t have sex with Oliver. Although, I can’t speak for Sara… right, not helping,” she added, when she noticed her father’s grimace. “But look: I got back together with Oliver despite what he probably got up to with my sister. You shouldn’t let the past stand in your way, either.”

 

* * *

 

            When Laurel walked back into the beach house that afternoon, Quentin tried to pretend that he hadn’t been spying on her through the window, watching as she and Queen talked, as the blonde had hugged her, kissed her on the forehead, but neither had shouted or looked angry…

 

            “How did it go?” Quentin asked, feigning nonchalance.

 

            “It couldn’t have gone better,” Laurel replied. “All break-ups should be like this. He said our fate was to be friends and… Oh, my god, _he_ broke up with _me!”_ The realization was sudden and unexpected.

 

            “No, he wouldn’t have,” he insisted. Oliver was head over heels for her.

 

            “He did,” she countered. “And, you know what? It doesn’t matter because it’s over and we’re both happy.” _And now you can go for it_ , her expression added.

 

* * *

 

            “Why didn’t you tell her?” Quentin asked over dinner that night. His daughter had long since gotten into her car and driven off.

 

            “Tell her what?” Oliver asked blithely.

 

            “You know what I’m talking about! That you’re the vigilante! I told you she’d forgive you, she’d understand. It would have brought you closer together. She’s half in love with the vigilante as it is, she wouldn’t have,” he paused, looking at the billionaire’s face before finishing, “she wouldn’t have broken up with the Hood.”

 

            “You might be right. I guess now we’ll never know,” Oliver replied. “But I don’t need someone staying with me because of some romanticized ideal. The Hood isn’t a hero any more than a villain and you know that.

 

            “The Hood is just… a thing, a tool for fixing the city, a necessary evil, you could say.”

 

            “I wouldn’t say necessary—”

 

            “No, of course you wouldn’t,” Oliver stifled a groan. “The Hood’s broken too many laws for you to see it that way. But I’d wager even you have your doubts about the system, Detective. You know it’s not perfect; the Hood wouldn’t be roaming the streets if it was.”

 

            “You don’t seem heartbroken about Laurel breaking up with you,” the cop observed, trying to steer the conversation back on track.

 

            “I’m not. I suppose I should be disappointed at having failed another relationship and I don’t mean to imply that Laurel isn’t quite a woman. You raised her well. She’ll be a good catch for someone, just not me. And I’m okay with that.”

 

            “How old are you?” Lance blurted out.

 

            “Ask random questions much?” Oliver raised an eyebrow.

 

            “It’s no more random than when you asked me the other night.” The detective felt chagrined, but he needed to know. “And I told you my age.”

 

            “Fair enough,” Oliver conceded. “I’m twenty-seven.”

 

            For the second time that day, Quentin nearly choked.

 

            “But that makes you younger than Laurel!” he exclaimed, after he could breathe again.

 

            “By about a year,” the vigilante had the temerity to shrug, as if the fact that he was younger than Quentin’s daughter meant nothing.

 

            “That would mean you’re—”  

 

            “Twenty years younger than you, yes, it would,” he interrupted before shrugging again. “Is there a problem, Detective?”

 

            Quentin shook his head slowly. Of course there wasn’t a problem. The age difference could only be a problem if they were involved, which they were _not_ and they were not going to be, so it was fine.

 

            “Everything’s fine,” he said aloud, earning a smile from Queen.

 

            “Glad to hear it.” For a moment, it looked as though Quentin could finish his meal in peace. So obviously Oliver had to spoil it. “As long as we’re discussing random facts about ourselves, you know I’m bisexual, right?” the billionaire asked innocently.

 

            Another tidbit about Oliver Queen: he knows the Heimlich maneuver. It’s a good thing, because Quentin was getting tired of visiting the hospital.

 

* * *

 

            By Wednesday afternoon, Quentin had given up pretending that Laurel was imagining things. He’d stopped ignoring the fact that he and Oliver had been flirting, for who knows how long.

 

            He was not feeling Zen about it; the fact that Queen had dated both of his daughters hadn’t gone away, nor had the age gap magically shortened and, alas, the Hood hadn’t been proven a mere figment of his imagination.

 

            But the physical attraction was there and was patently mutual and denial wasn’t going to make it go away. (And for whatever it was worth, Laurel had given him her blessing.)

 

            The skies opened up above them as the men walked along the beach, so they headed back to the house. They got back to find that the electricity had gone out in the storm. They lit candles because, hey, they still needed light.

 

            The rationalizations took Quentin no further than that because then—

 

            “I kissed you,” Quentin said, stunned, but not ashamed.

 

            “No, I kissed you,” Oliver contradicted him, though he conceded mentally that the detective had kissed back.

 

            That sounded too much like Queen being a wise-ass and issuing a challenge.

 

            Quentin Lance doesn’t back down from challenges.

 

            “That,” Quentin said after they eventually parted, “now that time I definitely kissed you.”

 

            “Lance, don’t keep score,” Oliver added, before returning to the engaging task of devouring Quentin’s mouth.

 

            At some point, the two wound up in Oliver’s bedroom.

 

            It turned out that Quentin could climb a flight of stairs, after all—repeatedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s the end of the chapter. Personally, I’m thinking Oliver would be the dominant one here. 
> 
> Chapter title is from Queen’s “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy.”
> 
> Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who has left feedback!


	8. The Bitter Pill

            Lance awoke to Oliver Queen’s arms around him. He remembered an awkward moment from the night before. After their amorous activities, he had offered to go back to sleep in the guest room while Oliver stayed in the master bedroom. Neither of them had been fond of that idea.

 

            Thus, he was more surprised by the fact that sunlight was streaming through the windows than by his companion. He had slept until morning. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand, but it was particularly unhelpful, flashing twelve o’clock as no one had reset it after the power came back on. ( _When did the power come back on?_ he wondered. They must have been preoccupied at the time.) Oliver’s cell phone was right next to the clock, though, and proclaimed that it was just after eight in the morning. _How…?_  He couldn’t remember the last time he had had a full night’s sleep.

 

            Neither could Oliver. For once he had had a night free from both vigilantism and flashbacks. That was unheard of for him.

 

            “Good morning,” Oliver grinned, as the two made eye contact.

 

            “Morning,” Quentin replied, hoping to keep embarrassment at bay. Why should the most fantastic night he had had in years embarrass him anyway? Embarrassment was out and so were regrets.

 

            They got out of bed; threw on clothes, and headed to the kitchen for breakfast. Everything was fine and (nearly) comfortable, but Quentin couldn’t help wondering what the recent turn of events meant for them. They had acted on their attraction to each other, obviously, but was there more between them than lust? Were they dating? _Oh Lord,_ was Queen his boyfriend now?

 

            _Ugh_ , not a thought to be faced before coffee—or ever, really. He’d just as soon do without labels that hadn’t flowed off his tongue since his years as a teenager. But he did have to know…

 

            “How do you feel about me?” Quentin finally managed to ask. The billionaire, finished eating, put down his fork and thought for a moment before answering.

 

            “You, Quentin, are a detective to love,” Oliver smiled, before taking his plate to the sink.

 

            _A detective to love… What does that even mean?_ Quentin wondered. It sounded like the sort of thing one would say when in love… But then, why not just say ‘I love you’? Unless Oliver didn’t love him, which was perhaps too much to expect after only one night… and he was overthinking this.

 

            It was a beautiful day and Quentin was not going to spoil it by worrying.

 

 

* * *

 

            The day had been pleasant. Following Quentin’s check-up, they’d spent time strolling along the beach before dinner.

 

            If anyone had cared to look, the reprogrammed clock would have announced that it was three minutes ’til nine when Oliver’s phone rang that evening. That was when the world went to hell.

 

            Lance noticed Oliver’s face fall as the younger man listened to whoever was on the other end of the line.

 

            “Tommy’s father’s been murdered,” Oliver told Quentin after the call ended.

 

            “Malcolm Merlyn? What happened?” the detective asked.

 

            “I don’t know. He was receiving a humanitarian award at some ceremony and he was shot while making the speech…

 

            “Looks like I’m the one that failed the city tonight,” the vigilante’s voice sounded hollow; not stoic or impervious but flat, dead, as if he’d taken one of his arrows to the heart.

 

            “Whoa, hang on; you’re not going to blame yourself for what happened!”

 

            “Why shouldn’t I? I let myself get distracted,” Oliver stared somewhere over Quentin’s shoulder. “I have a responsibility to this city and I was shirking it. And because of that, my best friend’s father is dead! God, if Tommy knew, he’d never forgive me…”

 

            Not that he had had any plans for telling Tommy about his secret identity. He had thought, wistfully, that it would be nice if he could confide in his oldest friend, but it was the same way that he wished he could tell the truth to his mother or his sister (he’d even wanted to tell Laurel). But he knew his longings weren’t practical and, apparently, neither was having a social life.

 

            “You’re not the one that killed his father!” Quentin barked, trying to get through to the other man. “And you’re not a cop; it’s not your job to protect—”

 

            “Quentin, unlike you, I may not get paid to save lives, but that doesn’t make me less responsible for them! Look, I have to go. And I won’t be coming back here afterwards.” The vacation was well and truly over. “I’ll call Diggle; have him give you a ride back to your place. You’ll be alright on your own?”

 

            “Yeah, fine,” Quentin nodded. He had seen Dr. Magnarelli that afternoon. The doctor had cleared him for going back to work on Monday. No reason he couldn’t go back to his apartment now.

 

            “I’ll call you, alright?” Oliver asked.

 

            “With or without the voice modulator?” Quentin snarked.

 

 

* * *

 

            Stupid; Oliver had been so stupid! What had he been thinking, delegating the Hood’s duties to Diggle? Starling City was his responsibility. Oliver should have been on top of things, he should have known Guillermo Barrera was in Starling, should have intercepted him and found out what he was up to before it was too late, damn it!

 

            He couldn’t put being the Hood on hold, not for anyone. His duties had to come first; he knew that now.

 

            He made his first trip to the lair beneath Verdant in almost two weeks, chastising himself for staying away so long as he suited up. As the Hood, he tracked down Barrera. Unable to intimidate the man into speaking, he left the assassin, bound, for the SCPD to take into custody.

 

            Unlikely to be of further help as the vigilante that night, he changed his attire and went as Oliver Queen to offer comfort to his friend.

 

            Tommy hadn’t attended the awards ceremony because he had been angry with his father. Oliver predicted that his friend would still be angry, but also grieving and feeling bad about how he had left things with his father.

 

            He did not predict that he would find Laurel there.

 

            It turned out that Laurel had been with Tommy when they both received the news about Malcolm. Tommy appreciated that Oliver had come to offer his condolences, but it was a terribly awkward way for Oliver to find out that his ex-girlfriend had moved on with his best friend. Not being in any position to throw stones, he wished them luck.

 

 

* * *

 

            “Forgive me; I have failed this city,” Moira Queen spoke into the microphones.

 

            Oliver hadn’t even realized his mother had called a press conference at the manor before it started. Now he stood on in shock as she confessed to hiring the assassin that had killed Malcolm Merlyn. She explained her involvement in the plot to destroy the Glades using technology developed at Unidac Industries (one of Queen Consolidated’s subsidiaries!) and claimed that she had seen killing Merlyn as the only way out.

 

            Once the press conference drew to a close, the police escorted Moira away.

 

            Oliver really didn’t know his mother at all, did he? Though, admittedly, he hadn’t wanted to know what she was hiding from him. So his parents had both been part of some secret league corrupting Starling… What other secrets were being kept from him? Was Thea going to start wearing long underwear and a cape next?

 

            It was too much for him to process. His mother had ordered the hit on his friend’s father. _Tommy is never going to speak to me again_ , Oliver fretted.

 

            Speak of the devil, Merlyn walked in. All of the reporters and officers had cleared out earlier in the day.

 

            “Tommy!”

 

            “I quit,” Tommy announced in lieu of greeting. He did not look happy.

 

            “What?” Oliver asked.

 

            “You’ll need to find another manager for Verdant. They,” he grimaced, “the official announcement hasn’t been made yet, but they want me to be the new CEO of the Merlyn Global Group.”

 

            Oh; Oliver supposed that made sense, in a nepotistic way.  

 

            “Do you even have any experience working for the company?” Oliver asked.

 

            “None whatsoever,” Tommy admitted. “I can feel the stock plunging already.” He paused before going on. “I saw your mom’s press conference earlier. You know the first thing I thought? ‘It couldn’t be true’—what she’d said about my dad. I mean, we’d had our disagreements, but there was just _no way_ he could’ve been planning to slaughter everyone in the Glades.” He cleared his throat; his eyes pricked with tears.

 

            “And then, I took a look in his office. And I found some things—a recording, from his cell phone, from the night mom died in the Glades. She left him a voicemail as she lay dying; god knows how many times he must have listened to it.”

 

            “Oh, Tommy—”

 

            “It gets worse. His office led into a secret room, full of arrows and equipment and… I think my dad was—what did the press call him? —the Dark Archer.”

 

            Oliver had not seen that coming. How was he supposed to help Tommy deal when he was still struggling to digest everything that had come to light?

 

            “You want a drink?” the blonde offered.

 

            “I’d love one.”

 

 

* * *

 

            “I’d have thought you’d be happy about coming back to work,” Detective Hilton said to his partner on Monday morning. Quentin had been staring at his desk, glaring at his phone. He looked up at his friend and tried to school his expression into something less tense.

 

            “I am, ecstatic…It’s just…” _Oliver’s not returning my calls. I haven’t spoken to him since leaving the beach house Thursday night, and if he wants to break up with me, he could have the decency of_ saying _so_ …

 

            _And if we are going to keep seeing each other, I have to resign as the head of this task force because I don’t want to be the one to arrest him next time._

 

            “Just?” Lucas prompted.

 

            _I’m worried about Oliver._

 

            “What happened during your sick leave?” Lucas asked when the other man didn’t say anything.

 

            There was a short hesitation before Quentin replied.

 

            “I fell in love with my daughter’s boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Queen’s “Life is Real.”
> 
> In this timeline, although Felicity did discover Oliver’s secret, Walter was never kidnapped. Without Walter being kidnapped, Felicity never joined Team Hood. Thus the computer whiz never warned Oliver or Diggle that Barrera was flying into Starling; Ollie doesn’t discover there’s an assassin after Malcolm, the hit takes place… voilà. The Undertaking is interrupted before the devices are finished.
> 
> I don’t think Malcolm Merlyn was a “major character”, but if you think the fic needs a warning, you can say so.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone that's left feedback!


	9. What You're Doing to Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so we’re clear: In this AU, Oliver has not killed twenty-seven people (or so). I’m not going as far as to say he hasn’t taken any lives, but he’s rarely resorted to it and has had damn good reasons for what he’s done.

            The first part of the sentence alone had surprised Hilton. Quentin had fallen in love—when the man had hardly dated to speak of since his divorce—had, in fact, seemed alone and depressed more often than not. Lucas was happy for him. He was about to congratulate the man when the second part of the sentence threw him for a loop.

 

            “Laurel’s boyfriend…”

 

            “Ex-boyfriend now,” Lance interjected. “They broke up recently.” If the sheepish expression on his face was anything to go by, he had somehow factored into the breakup.

 

            “But wasn’t she dating Oliver Queen? You’re saying you fell in love with one of the two people you hate most in the world?”

 

            _Not two people, one person_ , Quentin thought, grimacing. Aloud he said, “I don’t hate him anymore…at the moment. I might give you a different answer tomorrow, though.” He was getting really tired of being ignored by the young man. If it wasn’t for the fact that Oliver’s mother was in prison for killing his best friend’s father, Quentin would be feeling pretty insulted right about now. (At least he knew Queen hadn’t had a problem with the sex.)

 

            “But we are still talking about the same Oliver Queen whose mother threatened legal action against the department because of your supposed vendetta?”

 

            “I’d like to see her argue that she’s in prison now because of some vendetta,” Quentin snorted. “I could care less about what Moira Queen thinks about me.”

 

            “Naturally; right, it can’t be Stockholm because that’s when you’re being held prisoner… So must be the Florence Nightingale Effect. Queen was acting as your nurse, right?” Lucas asked.

 

            “I didn’t need a nurse!” Quentin said, exasperated. “He was acting as…my friend… You know, if friends ogled you naked—” He paused, realizing what he’d just said. “Forget that last part.”

 

            “I—okay then,” Lucas tried to process this. “And Laurel knows about you and Queen?”

 

            “Not only knows, she’s the one that told me to go for it,” Quentin muttered.

 

            “That’s…gracious of her,” Hilton commented, trying to avoid insinuating that there was something screwed up about the Lance family. _(But what daughter would encourage her father to pursue a relationship with her latest ex-boyfriend?)_

 

            “So if Laurel approves,” Lucas continued, “and if you two hit it off, what’s the problem?”

 

            “He hasn’t spoken to me since Merlyn Senior was assassinated.”

 

            “Well, it’s not like he can blame you for what happened. You weren’t on duty that night,” he pointed out.

 

            “He doesn’t,” Quentin couldn’t explain to his partner that Queen blamed himself, not without revealing the vigilante’s secret. “But he didn’t take it well and,” he sighed. “I want to be there for him, but he won’t let me. And I can’t believe that I just said I want to be there for Oliver Queen.” The sergeant let his head drop to his desk for a moment. “How the hell did I start caring for him of all people?”

 

            “Come on,” Lucas grabbed his jacket. “We’re going for donuts.* I’m buying.”

 

 

* * *

 

            “Hey Dad,” Laurel greeted her father as she strolled through the precinct Wednesday afternoon. He did not appear to be in good spirits. Oliver was probably still avoiding him, then.

 

            It was times like this when she wondered if Ollie was still as immature as he’d been pre-island. She tried not to feel guilty for pushing her father to enter a relationship with the billionaire. Sooner or later Ollie would pull his head out of his ass and call to apologize. And if he didn’t, well, her father would just have to get back in the saddle again. The experience would have shown him that it isn’t too late for him to go back to dating and finding someone that makes him happy…hopefully.

 

            “Hey Laurel,” Quentin looked pleasantly surprised to see her. “Are we having lunch together today?”

 

            “Actually, I came by to see if we could have dinner together tonight.”

 

            “With who else?” Quentin asked, suspiciously. If this was about Laurel wanting him to meet a new boyfriend of hers… although, actually, it could get worse. She might be trying to set him up with someone.

 

            “With Mom and her new fiancé,” Laurel admitted.

 

            “Oh no, _no_!” Quentin shook his head, “nuh-uh, no way.”

 

            “Oh come on, _please_ , Dad? She’s making me meet him. Don’t make me go alone!”

 

            “Find someone else to go with you then.” He had to stay firm. The last time he’d given in to one of Laurel’s demands he’d wound up Oliver Queen’s houseguest. “I’ve no interest in getting to know Dinah’s next husband and besides, I’m sure she has no interest in my company.”

 

            “But I already asked and she said you could come. Please come with me? I’ll owe you one, alright?”

 

            “You’d owe me more than one,” Quentin replied.

 

            “Alright, but you’ll do it?”

 

            Quentin sighed.

 

 

* * *

 

            Quentin’s jaw all but dropped as he and Laurel arrived at their destination.

 

            “Astra? Are you kidding? Laurel, you know I can’t afford to eat at Astra.”

 

            “Don’t worry about it. Stepdad’s picking up the tab,” she assured him as they exited the car.

 

            “Oh _that_ makes me feel better. He’s made of money? What does he do?”

 

 

* * *

 

            “Arthur Hartley, editor-in-chief of the _Starling City Sentinel_ ; pleasure to meet you, Quentin,” Hartley shook hands as he introduced himself.

 

            “Likewise,” Quentin said, as the four took their seats at the table. “How did you and Dinah meet?”

 

            “I was providing the floral arrangements for one of the _Sentinel_ ’s functions,” Dinah began. “And this man comes storming up to me to complain that I’d gotten the order all wrong—”

 

            “And she, brazen as hell, whips out her invoice to prove that she hadn’t—” Arthur continued.

 

            “Before I knew it, he was asking me to dinner,” Dinah finished.

 

            “Great story,” Quentin said. Noticing that Laurel was occupying herself with reading the menu, he groped for more small talk. “Where did you study journalism, Arthur?”

 

            “At Metropolis University,” Hartley replied.

 

            “In what year?” Laurel scoffed.

 

            “I was in the class of ’66,” the editor answered, frowning slightly at the young woman.

 

            “Wasn’t that the year you were born, Mom?” Laurel asked.

 

            “Laurel,” Quentin shot her a warning look, which she ignored.

 

            “Mom, how can you marry a guy that’s twice your age?”

 

            “Don’t speak to your mother that—” Quentin began

 

            “Of course you would judge _me_ ,” Dinah interrupted. “Didn’t you tell me your father was dating a man younger than you?”

 

            “Oh boy,” Quentin frowned at the glass of water in front of him. Shouldn’t someone be taking his drink order right about now?

 

            “That’s different,” Laurel insisted.

 

            “No, it isn’t. You always take his side over mine,” Dinah shot back.

 

            “Honey, you’re making a scene,” Arthur interjected.

 

            “That’s not true!” Laurel bristled.

 

            “Yes, it is. You blame me for the divorce,” her mother observed.

 

            “Because you _left_!”

 

            “No one’s to blame,” Quentin spoke up, his eyes scanning the floor for their waiter. They froze on one of the tables across the room. Oliver Queen was dining with a young blonde. Lance lurched to his feet.

 

            “Dad, are you alright?” Laurel asked.

 

            “I just think I need some air. If the waiter shows up, you guys can order; you don’t have to wait for me.” He headed towards the door of the restaurant. Unfortunately, his path took him right past Queen’s table.

 

            “Quentin?” Oliver asked, rising from his seat. “What are you doing here?”

 

            “Family dinner with Laurel,” Quentin managed to answer. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to this young lady?”

 

            “I’m Marianne,” the blonde flashed Quentin a smile and looked about ready to start batting her blue eyes.

 

            “Nice to meet you,” Quentin said. “Excuse me, I have to go.”

 

            “Quentin, wait!” Oliver called after him, but Quentin ignored him and kept going.

 

            “Quentin!” Oliver repeated, following him out of the restaurant. Quentin kept walking. “Quentin, we need to talk! Let me explain.” Lance paused to hear what he had to say.

 

            “What you just saw… that was planned way before you and I got together…”

 

            “You mean while you were still dating my daughter. How does that help your case any?” he demanded.

 

            “It meant nothing! Nothing is going to happen between me and…” Oliver apparently struggled to come up with the woman’s name.

 

            “Marianne,” Quentin finished for him. “It doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business. I mean it’s not like we’re going together or anything.” As Laurel had been his ride to the restaurant, Quentin started looking for a cab.

 

            “Quentin, can we just talk for a minute? Look, I’m sorry that I haven’t been in touch. It’s not that I don’t care about you. I just… I don’t know how to be a boyfriend.”

 

            “You don’t know how to be a boyfriend,” Quentin repeated slowly. “That’s all you’ve got, huh? Okay,” he nodded to himself. Then he reared back and punched Oliver in the eye, heedless of the camera flashes going off around them.

 

            Oliver grimaced, gingerly raising a hand to the blossoming shiner.

 

            “You don’t have to worry about calling me, Queen,” Quentin spat. Then he raised a hand to his chest. It felt like it was getting hard to breathe. He swayed on his feet.

 

            “LANCE?!”

 

 

* * *

 

            Quentin woke up on a hospital bed in Starling General.

 

            “Another heart attack,” he mumbled.

 

            “Not quite,” the cardiologist standing at his bedside informed him. “Dr. Erika Palmer,” she introduced herself. “Your EKG checks out. This wasn’t a heart attack.”

 

            “It felt like one,” the detective asserted.

 

            “I’m sure it did. Anxiety attacks can be mistaken for heart attacks,” Dr. Palmer told her patient. “It was brought on by stress.”

 

            Quentin narrowed his eyes.

 

            “You’re going to tell me to reduce my stress level.”

 

            “Yes, I am.”

 

            “Heh, my daughter’s been telling me that for years. Let me tell you something, doc—it’s not that simple.”

 

            “Maybe you haven’t been trying hard enough,” a familiar voice came from the doorway.

 

            “That one, right there,” Quentin jerked his head towards the voice without looking at the person it belonged to, “is the reason my stress level is so high.”

 

            “Good to see you’re doing well, Quentin,” Oliver said, coming into the room. Dr. Palmer left them alone.

 

            “How did you get in here?” Quentin groaned.

 

            “You know, it is amazing how well you’re treated when your family’s donated three-quarters of a million dollars to an institution over the past couple of years.”

 

            “Asshole,” Lance grunted. “Shouldn’t you have someone holding ice to your face?”

 

            “I’m going to have a black eye either way,” Oliver shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

 

            “I’ll be sure to swing harder next time.”

 

            “I know you’re mad at me. I don’t know whether you’ll believe me, but that ‘date’ you thought you saw was just a pretense, part of my cover. I’m not saying that that makes it right,” he sighed before continuing.

 

            “You know my history. I do have a lousy track record as a boyfriend. I’d like to change that.

 

            “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I know you’re probably thinking I’m using a stereotype of police officers. But an alternative way of looking at it is as a nod to Harry’s request in “Small Favor,” of The Dresden Files. 
> 
> Chapter title is from Queen’s “Somebody to Love.” Astra is apparently a real restaurant (owned by the Charlie Palmer Group), though I haven’t been there. Arthur Hartley is an OC I’m recycling from a previous fic. (Bonus points if you know which.) I leave it to you to decide whether “Marianne” was, in fact, Felicity.
> 
> Thanks again to those who have left feedback!
> 
> There is perhaps one chapter/epilogue left.


	10. Epilogue: Born to Love You

_Two Years Later:_

 

            “Mr. Queen,” the maître d’ smiled. “How many are in your party this evening?”

 

            “Four,” Oliver smiled back. He glanced at Quentin, Laurel and her husband, and the baby girl in Tommy’s arms before adding, “and a half.”

 

            “Right this way.”

 

            Melinda Merlyn (either Laurel or Tommy had to have a thing for alliteration) was almost three months old and absolutely precious. And, fortunately, fairly well behaved or even Starling City’s royalty would have had trouble taking her to Astra. While Quentin had had mixed feelings about gaining a son-in-law, he adored his granddaughter. If the title of ‘grandpa’ made him feel a bit old, it was a small price to pay.

 

            Tommy had settled into his role as the CEO of the Merlyn Global Group quite nicely. Apparently he had a previously undiscovered knack for running the business. While the job was demanding, he made sure to always make time for his family and his friends.

 

            He still considered Oliver his best friend, seeing no point in holding against the blonde the actions of their parents. (He had a few suspicions about the Hood’s identity, but no interest in confirming them either way. And he had stopped pressing Oliver about what had happened on the island after his father-in-law had taken him aside and had a discussion with him about the nature of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.)

 

            Queen Consolidated was still being run by Walter Steele. Though he and Moira had seemed on the verge of separating a couple of years ago, Moira’s confession had actually brought the two closer together. He frequently visited her in prison. Her trial was fast approaching. Rumor had it that she intended to argue duress for her involvement in “the Undertaking,” as the plot to level the Glades had been dubbed, and, of all things, necessity for the assassination of Malcolm Merlyn. (Laurel suspected Moira Queen was really hoping to rely on juror nullification for the murder charge and wondered if she wouldn’t be best off cutting a plea deal. But Laurel wasn’t representing Moira so it wasn’t her concern.)

 

            Walter had again offered Oliver a position as an officer in the corporation, but the young man said he was content with his nightclub. After Tommy had resigned as Verdant’s manager, Oliver had hired Thea’s boyfriend for the job. Roy wasn’t half bad at it, when he bothered to actually show up.

 

            Ostensibly, the two couples were having dinner this evening to celebrate Lieutenant Lance’s recent promotion. (Evidently alliteration was sometimes unavoidable.) Quentin’s task force no longer tried to bring the vigilante down. Starling City had come to recognize the Hood as a hero and it was now S.C.P.D. policy to cooperate with the Hood. For some reason, Lance was chosen as the liaison between the department and the vigilante.

 

            People tried not to speculate too much about the lieutenant’s connection with the hero. After all, Quentin’s relationship with Oliver Queen had been common knowledge ever since the incident outside of Astra. The paparazzi had had a field day over the black eye and had continued covering the lovers’ antics ever since—much to Lance’s annoyance.

 

            Oliver had an ulterior motive for the night out. Between the entrees and the dessert, Queen got down on one knee.

 

            “What the hell are you doing?” a startled Quentin demanded.

 

            “What does it look like? I’m proposing. Quentin Lance, will you marry me?”

 

            “For god’s sake; get off the floor before someone starts taking pictures!” the cop moaned. He just knew this was going to be in the tabloids the next day.

 

            “Is that a yes?” Oliver asked.

 

            “Say yes!” Laurel stage whispered.

 

            “Hey, if he does say yes,” Tommy piped up, “and if he takes Oliver’s name that would make him ‘Quentin Queen.’” So Tommy seemed to be the one who liked alliteration.

 

            “That’s enough reason for me to say no,” Quentin said, wincing. Oliver wasn’t sure if the man was joking. He shot a half-hearted glare at Tommy, who shrugged sheepishly.

 

            _This is insane_ , Quentin thought. The two of them being together was insane. Oliver was still younger than his daughter and his alter ego, though now widely accepted, still broke the law on a regular basis. Moreover, the vigilante still raised his blood pressure every day. It was a wonder that Quentin hadn’t had any further heart attacks.

 

            But somehow they had been dating for the past two years. And, god help them, they were still in love.

 

            After he and Dinah had divorced, Quentin had never thought he’d get remarried, but…

 

            “Might as well,” he sighed dramatically. “Yes, it’s a yes, now take your seat!”

 

            Elated, Oliver ordered a bottle of champagne for the table to celebrate.

 

            Tommy congratulated them and tried to make a toast, but just shook his head, stunned by his father-in-law’s engagement to his best friend.

 

            “The two of you are getting married. Wow; what’s next, Oliver getting elected mayor of Starling City?”

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Queen’s “I Was Born to Love You.”
> 
> Thanks to those who have read to the end and especially to those who have left feedback!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the story. Fear not, for I still have other works-in-progress to finish (“The Baby Carriage” comes to mind). 
> 
> Congrats if you recognized certain references to the comic books. I haven’t read them, but I did a little research online.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> For those who are interested, the address is: http://wtchcool.tumblr.com/


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